A Wonderful Stroke of Luck
by Chalkboard Dragonfly
Summary: An alternate timeline of events. Raoul and Christine are secretly married before he leaves for the Arctic. Erik has been admiring Christine from afar, but only approaches her once she is alone again. Leroux based. Friendly to all three of our main characters.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Even though Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ is public domain, and this story looks strictly to the original novel for inspiration, I still feel obligated to say that I don't own it.

The marriage was not legal. Raoul had tried, but he needed more time than he had to persuade his brother to accept Christine. The Arctic expedition was looming over him. He could not wait for Philippe to see sense. Of course, they could have eloped to another country, but Christine feared the reaction of his family too much. She had tried to persuade him to wait until he was home again; he would not hear it. This was their compromise – a secret marriage known only to the two of them, and a sympathetic priest. When he came back, they could bide their time, and be married legally. Philippe would come around once he realized this was not a passing infatuation, and Raoul would marry Christine or marry no one. He had wanted to marry her since they were children. In the eyes of God, if not the law, it was done.

They were alone in her dark bedroom. He was glad her guardian was elderly – Mme. Valerius's imperfect hearing made it much easier for Christine to sneak him into their flat. He was still careful to be very quiet. They had considered telling the old lady, but her mind was slipping, and Christine was afraid she would forget and bring up their marriage to the maid, or to one of their acquaintances. Christine stood before him, wrapped up in a dressing gown, her hair hanging unbound. It reached the back of her knees. She was smiling shyly, biting her lower lip and looking at the floor. Even with the lack of light, he could tell she was blushing. He brushed his fingertips across the little curls on her forehead before resting his palm on the side of her face. She leaned into his caress with a contented little exhale, then looked up at him, stepping closer. They had kissed before, many times since they had first become engaged, but this was different. They were not married then, and she'd never been in such a state of undress in front of him. Since their reunion, he'd wanted to get his hands under her clothing, had thought about it almost constantly, and now it was an actual possibility.

Raoul knew what they should not do. It might not have been morally wrong any longer – but common sense dictated that it might be a bad idea, with the potential for very serious consequences, when he would be leaving in a little less than a month. As he slid a hand underneath her dressing gown to grasp a breast through nothing but a nightdress, and she welcomed the contact, his rational mind succumbed to pent up desire. Common sense would not stand against biology – for him, there was no point trying.

* * *

Standing in front of him and feeling her face go very red, she wished she had paid more attention to some of the chatter at the opera. She might have learned something useful. Instead, all she had was a head full of vague ideas and uncertainty. As soon as he touched her face, she relaxed a little. This was her Raoul; she had loved him from the moment he'd run into the sea to save her scarf. She trusted him implicitly. He would never purposely hurt her.

At first, she tried to keep her nightgown on, but he soon coaxed her out of it. Raoul had always been adept at getting his way, especially when it came to Christine. It was his smile; he had the most adorable dimple in his left cheek, and very nice teeth. She would do anything to make him smile at her, and his hands on her bare skin felt so right. She was surprised by how quickly she stopped caring about modesty.

Now she was lying in his arms, with one hand skimming his bare chest. Even with his mustache, his face was still boyish. His body, however, was not. He seemed older without his clothes, stronger, and more capable. She wished it would make her feel better about his upcoming departure, but it did not. No matter how physically strong he was, no matter how prepared, the Arctic was dangerous. She didn't want to think about the possibility that he would not make it back – but she knew how real it was. Maybe she should have taken him up on his offer to run away together, but she did not want to cause any more problems with his family, or to stand in the way of his potential achievements. She realized his brother would be furious if he found out what they had done, but Raoul assured her that the Comte would approve of her eventually. She gave herself no other option than to believe him.

Perhaps they had just been utterly foolish, but it did not feel that way. The act itself had hurt a little, and had been over just as she was getting used to it, but she'd never felt more connected to him. The intimacy of it moved her. The usual swelling she felt in her breast when she looked at him, or thought of him, was now magnified to an unprecedented level. Yet, she wanted nothing more than to cry, not for what she had just lost, but for what she would lose. She would not let herself, however. She would give him everything he wanted, and gladly. All they had was a few short weeks, and even though they considered themselves married, they had to sneak around as if they were doing something wrong. She would not waste a single moment of their limited time together with tears.


	2. Chapter 2

The performance was over, and Erik made his way to the lonely dressing room at the end of the hallway. He could here the mad crush of people outside Carlotta's dressing room, but he knew from experience that would not be the case where he was headed. He had long been in the habit of spying on the pretty girls in the chorus or the corps de ballet. It was one of the advantages of being the Opera Ghost. His old favorite was La Sorelli; he might not have thought she deserved her position, but she was a very well put together woman. That had changed the minute he had laid eyes on Christine Daaé a little over a year ago. There was something about the serious Swedish girl that spoke to him in a way the others did not. When he reflected upon his feelings, he decided that it had something to do with her innate kindness. Even before he knew how much attention she paid to the Opera's lesser staff members, to the little girls learning to dance, to the horses in the Opera's stables, he could simply tell that she had a kind heart. It was written all over her lovely features, and in her voice whenever she spoke. He liked to think she would even be kind to him, if they had cause to meet.

She was a good girl. He'd seen her with the Vicomte de Chagny a few times, but whatever was happening between the two of them did not appear to the be the same sort of thing that happened between, say, the Vicomte's older brother and Sorelli. Whatever intentions the young man had appeared to be completely honorable. Erik would have been jealous, but what was the point? He knew the boy would be leaving on an Arctic expedition soon, if he hadn't already left. Besides, he learned long ago that love and affection were things beyond his grasp. So, he had watched them kiss, listened to her breathy sighs, and filed it away for his later use.

His only negative thought about Christine was that her voice was a tragic mediocrity. She could have been great. The sheer potential was there, enough so that she had managed to get herself out of the chorus and into smaller roles. Oh, but he knew that she could do so much more if she only had proper guidance. He had long wished there were a way to teach her – to help her find the voice he knew was lurking inside. He was convinced that if he could, he would transform her into one of the greatest singers the world had ever known. Then, she would be so grateful, that perhaps she would be willing to overlook his many abnormalities... He stopped himself from that line of thought. It only made him sad to think about these things that would never be. At least she had her own dressing room, where he could watch her without being distracted by the inane chatter of the other girls. That would have to be enough.

He arrived before she did and peered through the tiny convenient hole in the wall into her room. The opera had begun showing Faust again, and she had been a lackluster Siebel, more so tonight than usual. The only truly redeeming thing about her performance was how adorable she looked in her boy's clothes. When she finally entered with her maid, he took a moment to appreciate how her costume showed off the lower half of her body in a way that women's clothing never could. She certainly could never pass for a boy in the real world. She plopped herself down in front of her vanity in a movement that seemed atypically unladylike. She wiped the grease paint from her face, as the maid fussed with her dark blonde hair. The two chatted amiably about nothing in particular. Without her stage makeup, he thought she looked very tired. Her face lacked its usual color. Once she was fully dressed, Christine asked to be left alone.

She opened her purse, and pulled out a plain gold band which she slipped onto her hand. That was a new development – or at least one he hadn't noticed before. It was a thin ring, and if he hadn't seen her put it on or take it off before, it was possible it had escaped him. He did not pay much attention to her hands. For the first time, he felt a twinge of jealousy over this woman to whom he had never spoken.

She turned to examine herself in the full-length mirror, and broke into tears. He'd seen her cry before; it made her eyes look more intensely blue. She was still quietly mourning her father, but this was different. These were not a few silent tears that stopped almost as soon as they started. She sobbed until she was gasping for air,and crumpled up on the floor. She picked her head up, and then slammed it into the floorboards. Again and again she repeated this action. She was going to seriously harm herself if she did not stop, and have a very nasty bruise even if she did.

He knew what had to be done. He mastered his nerves, and threw his voice, commanding and strong into the room. "Christine Daaé! Stop that at once!" She sat up, startled out of her tears. She was clearly both frightened and embarrassed. Erik fought the urge to laugh at the expression on her face. Instead he continued speaking, "You'll hurt yourself, you foolish woman." And it was done. He'd just given Christine a brush with the Opera Ghost, another story to be added to the tales of Box Five, the apparition in gentlemen's clothing, and the scene shifter's death at Debienne and Poligny's retirement gala. It might even help these new managers to fall in line – and he certainly needed the help. He didn't like resorting to outright theft for his salary. If things continued as they were, he would soon be required to do something drastic. Christine wasn't some flighty 15-year-old ballet girl, or an eccentric box keeper to be dismissed out of hand, or even someone who had a reputation for gossip; maybe she would be seen as a more credible witness.

"I – I'm sorry," she sputtered, nearly jumping to her feet.

He couldn't stop himself from laughing this time, but it was not unkind. "It wasn't my head you were banging against the floor, child."

It was hard to tell with her face red from crying and her bruising forehead, but he believed she was blushing. A warm, tingling feeling spread through Erik's chest; he was not used to making women blush. Even in her current state, he found her painfully attractive.

"Who are you? Where are you?" she inquired, looking around the room.

"I think you know," he replied, waiting with anticipation for her embarrassment to turn into fear.

He was not disappointed. She went from red to pale. Her eyes grew wide and she began to tremble. "It can't be. Why now?" Her voice was shaky. "Why after all this time? How do I know this isn't someone playing a trick?"

Had she been waiting for the Opera Ghost to speak to her? Surely she knew that speaking to the performers was not his usual modus operandi. What an odd girl... "Why not now? I've never seen you in danger of hurting yourself before. And," he threw his voice at her from a different direction, "It is not a trick." Then, directly into her ear, he whispered, "Could a mortal man do this?"

Her mouth was now gaping open; she appeared to stop breathing for a moment. Then she collected herself. "What about when Father died?" she questioned. "Why didn't he send you then? No, I can't believe you... But your voice..." She trailed off. He did not answer immediately, because he realized that whatever she thought he was, it was not the Opera Ghost.

Finally, he responded, "Believe or disbelieve whatever you would like. It does not change what I am."

She wrinkled her forehead, and then appeared to think better of it, pressing a hand against it and then quickly pulling it away. "So you've come to teach me to sing?"

He could not believe what he had just heard. Here was his opportunity. "If that is what you wish," he replied. If only he'd known she'd been waiting for a disembodied voice to teach her, he would have approached her months ago.

She nodded. "If you are who you say you are, then sing something for me, or play something. A beautiful speaking voice alone proves nothing."

Erik smiled widely beneath his mask. She'd complimented him. Even though his voice was not warmed up, he knew his limits, and he knew that he was a far better singer than anyone who had ever graced the Opera's stage. He launched into "Salut! Demeure chaste et pure" because Faust was in his head. Besides, he thought, let her compare Fonta's rendition to his. There was no contest. By the end of the unaccompanied cavatina, she was kneeling in front of the mirror with her eyes closed, looking for all the world as if she were having a deep religious experience.

He let her sit for a moment, before saying, "So, do you wish to have lessons?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation.

"Since you have no rehearsal tomorrow, and it is very late, meet me here at 11:00. Usually, we will begin earlier."

She rose unsteadily on her feet. "I will be here."

"Goodnight, Christine," he said softly.

Before exiting the room, she turned and looked around with a furrowed brow. She shook her head, and closed the door behind her.

What had he just done? He was torn between laughing giddily and vomiting with nervousness. Erik's fantasies had always been just that. Now that one of them was the smallest bit closer to becoming reality, he wasn't sure he could handle it. It felt like someone had just taken a sledgehammer to a wall inside of him, and who knew what would be released from the other side. It was wonderful and dangerous.


	3. Chapter 3

Christine hardly slept that night. Her thoughts of Raoul were accompanied by a mix of elation and skepticism over the Voice. Despite how late she had arrived home, she rose early. The first thing she did was check her forehead in the mirror – it looked truly awful. She didn't know what trick she could possibly use to make herself presentable. She couldn't quite understand the impulse that had driven her to smack her head against the floor. Whatever it was, she did not want to think about it too closely. There was no performance that night, but the bruise would not be gone by the time there was. In the meantime, she styled her hair to cover it as much as possible. She would have to tell people she'd walked into a wall, or some other white lie, and hope it was faded enough to cover adequately when she had to be on stage again.

Once she was satisfied that she couldn't do anything more for her appearance, she went to talk to Mamma Valerius. It was true that the old woman was not nearly as sharp as she used to be, and Christine could never let slip what had happened with Raoul, but surely she could still trust Mamma's advice on what had happened the night before. Since her father's death, Mamma had been her adviser in all things spiritual. Even with her slowly deteriorating mind, she would know the gravity of such a thing, and stay quiet... And if she did not, she most likely would not be believed. Christine was very aware of how ridiculous the story would sound to most people.

"Good morning, Mamma," Christine greeted her, kissing her cheek before sitting beside the bed.

"What happened to your head?" Mamma asked. She reached a frail hand forward and touched Christine's bruise.

Christine winced. "It's nothing; I was clumsy and walked into a door frame."

"Repeatedly?"

"No," Christine smiled, near giggling at her adoptive mother's incredulity.

"I haven't seen you smile in days," she observed.

"Because... Oh, maybe you will think I hit my head too hard," the young woman began animatedly explaining what had transpired in her dressing room the previous night. She was very careful not to utter the phrase that had been in her head since the moment she first heard the Voice. She did explain the impossible beauty of his speaking alone, and how when he had sung, she thought she could die quite happily. It had actually made her physically ache. She wished that the Voice had feet, so she could throw herself at them, and proclaim that she was not worthy. "And Mamma," Christine concluded, "He has said he will give me lessons, and I should be there today. Should I go? Have I gone completely mad?"

"You are not mad! Of course you should go; your father did say he would send the Angel," Mamma Valerius reasoned.

"But why did he wait so long? How do I know it's the Angel?" Christine asked.

"I imagine time runs differently in Heaven, if there is time at all. Don't doubt your own senses - you said yourself that the voice was like nothing on Earth. Who else could it be?"

After that conversation, Christine went to meet the Voice, feeling it was more probable that the Angel of Music had come to teach her than that someone was playing an elaborate trick. She knew of no way voices could move around a room of their own accord, and she knew of no voice that sounded half as sweet as the one she had heard the night before. She arrived early, sat down on her fainting couch, and waited while fidgeting nervously with the fabric of her skirt. She began to hear the voice singing softly from somewhere. Just to be sure, she went into the hallway so she could check the other rooms. As she had suspected, there was no one around. She returned to her room, her hands pressed to her chest as though she could slow the the excited pace of her heart by applying pressure. The Voice grew closer until it was directly beside her. She wanted to try to touch it, to see if there were some tangible force in the room with her, but she left her hands where they were for fear of looking foolish. When the singing stopped, she felt as though she had just lost something precious.

She wanted to beg for more, but before she could find the words, the Voice greeted her, "Good morning, Christine."

"Good morning," she replied, and summoning all her nerve continued, "May I ask you a question?"

"Certainly."

She took a deep breath. " _Did_ my father send you? Are you the Angel of Music?"

"Of course, dear child." Something in the tone of his response made her believe that he was smiling as he answered. Hearing that gentle smile, the affection evident in that unfathomable voice, both set her at ease and fostered a sense of awe akin to what she had felt when she first heard him sing.

It was much easier to accept the lessons after that reassurance. As much as she did not think she was worthy of the attention, she was grateful and enraptured. She had doubted the Angel; she had doubted her father. It terrified her to admit it, but at times she had even doubted God. All that was changed. Her faith in all three was reaffirmed, and she was deeply ashamed of her doubt. Feeling the need to confess to him, by the end of the first week, she had told the Angel as much. She was terrified that he would end his contact with her then and there, but he surprised her.

"What do you think Jesus meant by saying you must become as little children?" The Angel inquired, then answered his own question, "Children question everything."

"You are not angry?" she asked. "You will still teach me?"

"Why should I be angry? Of course I will still teach you," was his response.

She was so relieved she could have cried.

If she had still doubted in the slightest, her trepidation would have been eased by her own progress. It was immediately apparent that the Angel understood her voice in a way that no one else ever had. She could already detect a noticeable difference.

"Those amateurs at the Conservatory obviously had no idea what they should have been doing with you," the Angel complained to her.

"But they are only human," she reminded him, "You can hardly hold them to your standards; that's not fair."

"I suppose I should be simply be happy they didn't do any irreparable damage, though it is very annoying to have undo all of their incompetence, as well as fixing your bad habits." His grousing sounded so completely mortal that she found it amusing.

Christine threw herself into singing with a passion she hadn't known she'd possessed. The lessons were her only distraction from thinking about Raoul, but it was apparent that even the Angel could not keep her tumultuous emotions entirely at bay. She worried about Raoul to the point of dizziness, and it was exhausting her. At three weeks in, she had one letter from him, penned the night before he left - hardly an indication of how things were fairing. She wrote him letters every day, but so far she had only sent the first one. She was afraid she would seem like a lunatic if she sent all she had written, so only the letters she deemed truly important would be sent. It wasn't as if he would be receiving mail once he was in the Arctic Circle anyway. She considered sending him a letter about the Angel, but other than a brief mention of a new instructor in her first letter, she decided that was a tale best told in person. Instead, she wrote mundane things about her day to day life, about how much she loved him, and kept the letters to herself. Perhaps she would give them to him upon his return.

She tried to be reasonable by telling herself that the Angel of Music was her personal proof that God was watching out for her. If God was watching out for her, then God must be watching out for Raoul. It only made sense. She attempted discussing it with the Angel, but whereas he was generally quite patient with her, the subject of Raoul seemed to annoy him.

"You are worrying far too much," the Angel scolded her. "If God takes care of the sparrows, surely He will take care of Raoul as well. Where is your faith?"

She'd hung her head, and blinked tears from her eyes. She was ashamed of her anxiousness and a bit hurt by his rebuke.

"Don't cry, Christine," he said, his voice gentler now, "I did not mean to upset you. It is only that excessive worry does no one any good. Concentrate on your music, instead of your fears. It is a gift that will help you if you let it."

She dried her tears. "I'm sorry," she sniffled. "You see? I am not worth your trouble."

"That is for me to decide," he replied.

She had been instructed not to incorporate any of the Angel's teaching into her performances, and she was very careful to do as he said. Even with her old techniques, she thought her performance was better that night than it had been. She had made an effort to concentrate more on the task at hand, and her acting did not suffer as it had before. She wanted the Angel to be proud of her. When he was pleased, he would sing or play the violin for her. She needed him desperately that night. After she was back in her own clothing, she sent the maid away, and hoped the he would come. She was not disappointed.

"Your concentration is improving." The voice that met her ears sounded pleased.

"Thank you... I think it was your reassurance that Raoul is being watched over," she answered, then hung her head, afraid he would be annoyed with her for bringing up the subject of her husband again.

"Dear Christine, she has so much on her mind," the Angel said. "Shall I play something for you before you go home?"

"Yes, please!" she agreed enthusiastically. She sat at her vanity, elbows resting on the little table, and her chin in her hands. She closed her eyes. "The Resurrection of Lazarus," imbued with more passion and played with more skill than even her father had possessed, filled the small room. Her longing for her father, her distress over Raoul's departure, her concern over Mamma's health – these things would not go away – yet, the Angel, and his music, soothed her troubled soul. If only he could cure it, she thought, as the tears rolled down her face. That was too great a task, she knew, even for a divine creature like himself.

 **Note:** Thanks for the reviews, follows, etc. If you didn't do any of those things but are still reading, I appreciate that was well.


	4. Chapter 4

When his brother had initially secured the appointment aboard the _Requin,_ Raoul had been very excited. Since he was a little boy, he'd always wanted to have some grand adventure - to be the hero. It was the reason he'd rescued Christine Daaé's scarf from the sea one windy afternoon. Well, that, and because he'd been desperate to meet her after hearing her sing. Now, because of her, he could not muster any sort of enthusiasm for the expedition; not that he blamed her in the slightest for his apathy. As much as he sincerely hoped there were survivors of D'Artoi's expedition, he no longer had the desire to be counted among their rescuers. His only concern with the voyage was that things progress as quickly and as smoothly as possible. He had too much to live for to risk suffering the same fate. He wondered what sort of person would possibly care about adventure when it meant he must leave behind someone like Christine. Once he was home, he wasn't going to let her out of bed for at least a month. He was not sure how that would work with their secretive arrangement, but he would find a way. There was plenty of time to plan, especially since he did not feel like making much of an effort to be social.

Raoul was the youngest of the 35 men aboard the _Requin_. He was an adequate sailor, but he was severely lacking in experience compared to the rest of the crew. The selection process had been grueling. There had been countless applicants slowly whittled down to the best and most qualified. Every other person aboard was someone who had earned their place. He was only accepted because of his brother's influence, and everyone knew it. He could feel their eyes on his back. Before Christine, he would have viewed their judgment as an opportunity to prove himself. As it was, he thought they were right, and wished himself home.

He wondered what the others would think if they knew that in the last few weeks of his furlough, he had begged his brother to use that same influence to get him out of it. The definitive and final conversation had taken place at breakfast two days before Raoul was to depart. He made one last effort, but was denied again.

"Absolutely not," Philippe had said, "It's far too late to try, and we've been through this; I went to quite a lot of trouble to get you on that ship. Now you would give it up, and for what?"

"You know what!" Raoul retorted.

"Yes, I do," Philippe sighed. "She's just a girl. Maybe she will be here when you come home. Maybe she won't be. It doesn't matter - there are plenty of pretty girls in the world. I don't know why you insist on behaving as if she were the only one."

"I love her! You know I'd marry her immediately if you'd stop being so stubborn." Raoul trembled slightly as he lied, and hoped his brother thought it was his anger.

"You are not marrying her. You are not damaging your career for her, or any other woman. Is that understood? This is a silly infatuation, and it will pass. Now please, and I understand that this is a difficult request at your age, stop being ridiculous."

Raoul glared at him. To think that Philippe had encouraged his pursuit of Christine in the beginning, only to become angered by it the moment he had discovered the depths of Raoul's affection for her. It was infuriating.

Philippe lowered his voice and leaned closer to him, "And don't think for a moment that I don't know what you've been doing, sneaking off at night."

Raoul blanched.

"Yes, little brother. I know exactly where you've been. I'd congratulate you, if you didn't insist on attaching some kind of grand, romantic importance to it."

"How dare you?" Raoul rebounded. "I won't let you sit here and imply that Christine would ever do anything she shouldn't. She's not like that."

Philippe quirked an eyebrow at him. "So what have you been doing?"

"Not what you're implying," Raoul said, fighting tears. He did not want to cry over her in front of his brother, especially not now. "It's just that I went so long without seeing her, without knowing where she was, or if she were alright. And now you want to separate us again."

Philippe softened his voice. "It's not about separating you. You were committed to this before you found her again. You'll see... Once you are there, on the ship, that this is what is best. You will forget about her."

"No, I won't."

Raoul knew his brother loved him, loved his sisters, had loved their parents, but he wondered if he had ever actually _loved_ someone. Occasionally, he thought that perhaps his brother did love Sorelli in some small way, as he was only too willing to wait around in the foyer holding her gaiters like a sop. Then, Raoul would think better of it. Whatever was between the two of them, it wasn't enough for Philippe to be willing to give up anything. It almost made Raoul angry on her behalf, but he did not know her well enough to have the slightest idea how she felt about it. Perhaps she was using his brother just as he was using her.

As much as Raoul wished he had not left with that conversation hanging between them, he would not back down just to please Philippe. He had nearly started a letter to Philippe with the assertion that he had yet to forget to Christine, but quickly thought better of it. At the moment, he was attempting to write to her. He would be able to get a few letters off before they were too far away from civilization for normal communication. But what could he possibly say to her? He did not wish to make her feel guilty or responsible for his current state. And even to his lovesick mind, filling up an entire letter with nothing but expressions of love seemed like a waste. Whatever he wrote to Christine, he wanted it to be interesting, worth reading. He pulled out a photograph she'd given him along with a lock of her hair. He stroked the hair with his thumb, admiring the way the dim light played on it.

The door creaked, causing him to jump. Before he could hide the picture and lock of hair away, his bunk mate was looking over his shoulder. "She's quite pretty."

Raoul flipped the letter over, hiding what little he had written. Unsure if he should put the picture away or leave it out, he turned to face the other man. At 27, Albert Marion was the second youngest person aboard the _Requin._ He was the ship's second engineer, and Raoul felt wholly unnecessary next to him.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Albert apologized, though he sounded mildly amused. "Who is she?"

"Her name is Christine," Raoul replied softly.

Albert nodded. An awkward silence passed between them. Raoul had always struggled to make conversation with people he didn't know well. "So," Albert continued, "How did you meet her?"

"I... well... We were friends when we were children," He didn't want to go into the entire story of the scarf and the sea. "I hadn't seen her in years, and we met again in Paris..." He wasn't about to divulge more information to this man he barely knew, but from the way Albert was looking at him, it seemed as though he were expecting more. "I'm trying to write to her, but I'm not sure what I should say. A day to day account could not possibly be of interest to her. Nothing of import has happened yet. If I had a good story to tell her, she'd like that, but nothing comes to mind." It was so much easier to write to Philippe and his sisters. He didn't care so much about what he said to them.

Albert shrugged. "You could always make up something, if you're so eager to impress her. She won't know the difference."

Perhaps with someone else, that would have been an option. With Christine, Raoul did not think it was a good idea. Even though they had been children, it still made him uncomfortable when he thought about how eager she had been to believe in korrigans. She had even claimed to see them, though he knew she had trouble seeing things in the distance. He'd wanted to believe in them, too, but not so much as to claim to see something that was not there. No, Christine was not someone who needed to be told any tall tales.

"I don't think she'd appreciate that."

"Then write about the boring things" Albert recommended. "People are usually so happy to have a letter from someone at sea, that they don't care very much about what it says. My wife keeps every letter I send her, no matter how dull it is."

He hadn't known that Albert was married; that information made Raoul take his advice more seriously. It also made him wonder what had possessed Albert to vie for a position on a dangerous expedition, but he would not ask. That was not the sort of question to ask a person one barely knew.

He sent off his boring letter at the first opportunity, and was pleased to have a letter from her. She was well, as was Mme. Valerius. The Opera was as it always was. She had a new vocal instructor whom she quite liked. Her news was nothing more earth-shattering than his own, but he was glad to have it. He read it again and again. He would have slept with it, but was too afraid someone would find out. She would most likely feel the same way about his letter, he reasoned. He was slightly bothered by the news of the vocal instructor. He wasn't jealous of her spending time with another man in a strictly professional capacity, it was just that she would have to give up the stage when he returned. For his own sake, he didn't care if she sang on every stage in the world. But if she were ever to win over Philippe, it would be necessary. He could not shake the guilt that welled up in him. She should not have to give up her father's dream for him or anyone; it wasn't right.

 **Note:** Thanks again for reading. I appreciate every follow, favorite, review, etc. (Especially my extra-special guest reviewer.)


	5. Chapter 5

Christine shut the door behind her with a quiet, "I'm sorry." Her voice had a slight rasp to it.

Erik had been on the verge of going to find her when she walked into her dressing room. She was usually the one doing the waiting in the mornings, but today she was more than 15 minutes late. Either her mental state was catching up to her physical state, or something else was wrong. Whereas he had not cared one way or another about the young man before, he had begun to hate the Vicomte de Chagny. Erik hated him for leaving Christine in limbo, and he hated him for the love she bore him in spite of it.

"What's wrong, child?" he inquired, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, and her colorless cheeks and lips. Even without her tardiness, without the subtle distortion in her voice, he would have been concerned. She had become his single focus, his lifeline, his distraction from everything that was wrong with his life. He had made a detailed study of everything about her, had learned her face like it was a language. What he saw now - the lack of color, the crinkle in her forehead - said that she was not well.

"I don't know," she answered. "I'm completely exhausted; I'm sure I'll be fine if I rest."

"Why don't you lie down?" He suggested. Not quite believing her assertion, he added, "No singing for you today."

She curled up on her fainting couch, facing away from him, wrapping her arms around herself. "What about tonight?" she inquired.

"Don't you worry about that." While Erik's troubles with the new managers had not quite been resolved, the Opera Ghost still held sway in other quarters. He would see to it that her absence was forgiven, and if it was not, there would be consequences. They were showing _Lucie de Lammermoor_ now, and she had no actual role beyond the chorus, so she would not be too badly missed. He had initially hoped that by the end of the run, Christine would be singing Lucie, and Carlotta would be somewhere far away. It was in vain; Christine was not ready for that kind of exposure. She was progressing rapidly, but she was not quite at the level he knew she could reach, and she still lacked confidence. He would not rush her into a leading role before she was ready, even though what she could do right now would still be better than Carlotta's overblown "Mad Scene." Less was never more in Carlotta's mind.

Christine rolled onto her back and sighed. She began worrying her lower lip with her teeth - that was never a good sign.

"What would you have me do?" Erik asked. She was thinking too much again; he hoped she did not ask to be left alone. He wanted to be needed, and he did not think she should be alone too often. No one understood the effects of loneliness better than Erik. Oh, how he hated Raoul de Chagny for putting her such a state. If he had possessed even the slightest bit of sense, he would have run off with Christine, consequences be damned. If she had objected, then he should have carried her off. Erik was torn between cursing the young man, and being glad he lacked the fortitude to do what was necessary. Either way, if the Arctic did not kill him...

After a moment, she said softly, "I think I would have completely lost my mind if you had not come when you did."

"Perhaps that is why your father sent me when he did." He felt ever so slightly uncomfortable as the words left his mouth.

Feelings of guilt were often, but not always, beyond Erik's grasp. He usually knew when he ought to feel to guilty, but knowing when one ought to do something and actually doing it are two separate things. In recent memory, he had felt something over Joseph Buquet's death, but not enough to warrant a closer examination of his actions. Buquet should have kept his mouth shut; it was that simple. In regard to Christine, he was aware that he was taking advantage of her innocent nature, but as he had no ill intent, he was not sure if feelings of guilt were warranted. His deception was only the means to an end, and it was to her benefit. The Angel was not even his idea, and he was offering her legitimate help. What did it matter that he liked to watch her undress? That he had begun following her home, hiding in the shadows, hoping to catch another glimpse of her? It did no harm. It allowed him to keep an eye on her. How she had made it this far in her life without someone taking advantage of her trusting nature was beyond him. She needed someone watching out for her.

She sat up, and began releasing her hair from its pins. He loved seeing her with her hair down. "I think so... Having Raoul, then losing him, and Mamma's mental state... I couldn't endure it without you."

"There's very little that can't be endured when one has no choice but to endure it. But, I am here, and I will never abandon you." It wasn't much, but it was more than her supposed husband had been able to offer.

"I think you're crediting me with more strength than I have." She smiled ever so slightly. "I still wonder if you aren't wasting your time... but I am glad you're here."

Her fingers flowed through her hair rapidly, arranging it into a braid. He wondered if her hair was as soft as it looked.

"I am, too." He answered her, hoping his voice did not completely betray the depth of his affection.

She lay back down on the couch, resting her hands across her abdomen. "Will you play something for me?"

"What would you like to hear?"

"Whatever you would like to play," she replied, closing her eyes.

He improvised, but it was gentle, and much more melodic than anything he would have played for his own benefit. Christine soon fell asleep. Erik did not want to wake her, but she needed to be home in bed, and not here. He let her sleep a little while longer before whispering in her ear. She reluctantly stretched and stood up. She brushed her skirt, straightening it as best she could before twisting her braided hair and pinning it up quickly and untidily. He wanted to follow her home, as he was concerned for her, but it was broad daylight, so he could not.

The next morning, she waiting for him. Her color was better, and when she greeted him her voice no longer sounded strained.

"You seem much better today," he observed.

"I am; I only needed to rest. Sometimes I think it would do me a world of a good if I could get away from my regular life for a bit. If I could just go somewhere away from the world, somewhere I could rest quietly, my mind would be much easier."

Erik understood her exactly. He found it curious that someone so much his opposite in most ways, could share his need for a refuge.

Later that day, he paced around his house, thinking, planning. He could give her a place to escape the world. He had the space; he even had the furniture. A few minor adjustments, a few items acquired, and she would be very comfortable with him. Of course, it would shatter her illusion of the Angel of Music, and he would have to become accustomed to less privacy, but the benefits might outweigh the risks for both of them. He would not bring her there lightly, nor out of his own desire for her company. It would only be because she needed it, _if_ she needed it. Such a situation seemed unlikely, but there was no harm in being prepared. Now that he had decided to do it, he sat down at his desk and began to write a list of things Christine might need or want if she were ever to stay with him.


	6. Chapter 6

There was too much blood, and the pain made Christine want to curl into ball with her knees hugged to her chest. She hadn't been able to sleep because of it. This was not at all normal. For the first time since he had left, she was actually glad Raoul was not there. She would not have wanted him to see her like this, though it would have been nice to have someone hold her. She wished she could stay in bed, but the Angel would be expecting her. She had yet to miss a lesson, and she was not going to start today. She managed to pull herself together enough to get out the door, but she was still late. She had come to feel as if she could tell the Angel almost anything, but she would never tell him the precise reason for her tardiness. She wondered how much omnipotence an angel possessed. There was, she reasoned, a distinct possibility that he would already know what the problem was. She hoped that was not the case; the very thought of it embarrassed her.

Once he told her to go home, and not to worry about the performance, she would have thrown her arms around him if she could. She had no idea how he would take care of her absence for her, but she trusted him when he said that she should not worry about it. It was a curious thing, having an otherworldly friend. One day, Christine would work up the courage to ask the Angel precisely how these things worked.

She lay in bed at home, not sleeping, trying to distract herself from her physical discomfort by thinking of pleasant things. Raoul's eyes, Raoul's lips, Raoul's hands. The Angel's voice. These thoughts belonged in separate chambers, and she moved from one to the other, making certain she shut the door behind her. Mixing them in anyway would be beyond wrong. She was horrified at herself for even having the idea that it _might_ happen if she were not careful. She truly hoped the Angel did not possess the ability to see inside her head; if he knew, she would surely lose him forever. She pressed her hands against her face, and forced herself to slow her panicked breathing. It was only because she was feeling unwell, she told herself. She needed to distract herself from her thoughts. She tried reading, but could not concentrate on anything.

Mamma would make her feel better - she always did. Christine saw no reason to tell her about her physical ailment, and she would never tell anyone about the shadowy half-thought that had entered her head. She sat next to Mamma and listened to her talk about the past with a clarity that belied her slipping mind. Mamma told stories of her childhood, and reminded Christine of nearly forgotten episodes from her own.

"And soon, Christine, you'll do everything your father ever dreamed for you. You cannot fail, not now that the Angel of Music has come to you," Mamma assured her, completely clearing the haze of pleasant nostalgia she had created.

"I hope you are right," Christine responded. "Already I'm better than I ever thought I could be, but I do sometimes wonder if I have the fortitude for it. Maybe I am better off being ordinary."

"My dear, if you did not have the strength, I'm sure the Angel would have stayed away. And why would God give you the talent and not the will?"

"I don't know." She couldn't tell Mamma that she would have to give up singing professionally once Raoul was home. He had never said so, but she knew that if his brother were ever going to approve of her, it was necessary. There would be a certain degree of socializing that would be expected of her as his wife, but Raoul was a relatively quiet individual, just like she was. The life she envisioned them sharing was oriented around each other, around having a family. She was certain he felt the same way. There was not room for an ongoing career on the stage in that vision, even if Philippe suddenly decided that he did not mind. Until the Angel had entered her life, she thought that she would not like any career for herself beyond the small one she currently claimed. Carlotta might not have been the warmest individual, but Christine had seen the amount of pressure she was constantly under, and felt a little bit sorry for her. Now, when she thought about it, it was beginning to change. The idea of a successful, if necessarily short-lived career in the spotlight no longer seemed like such a bad thing. When she wrote to Raoul that night, she told him how fulfilling her father's dream seemed like a daunting task, but now that it was becoming achievable, the idea excited her as much as it frightened her.

She felt better in the morning, both physically and mentally. She was a little nervous heading to her lesson, but once she started talking to her disembodied tutor, she knew everything would be fine.

* * *

Christine's life continued in much the same way as it had been since Raoul left. She heard from him, which made her ecstatically happy for a few days; otherwise, all was routine. She continued to make rapid progress with her lessons, which pleased the Angel. For the most part, it pleased her as well, but there were moments when she would listen, really listen, to the sounds that issued from her throat, and it would leave her feeling unsettled. While her voice did not possess the quite the same otherworldly quality as the Angel's, she was producing notes so pure that they didn't sound as if they should be coming from a human being, and certainly not from someone as ordinary as she considered herself.

After a particularly successful lesson, she stood facing her full length mirror with her hand clasped to her throat. She had only been studying with the Angel for a couple of months, what would she sound like after a year?

"What is it?" he asked gently, "You've gone very pale."

"I can't believe that was my voice."

"You did very well," he reassured her. "You are almost ready."

"I am afraid," Christine confessed to the Angel for the first time. "Do not misunderstand me; I am very grateful for you, for the opportunity to fulfill my father's dreams... It's just that this has all happened so quickly."

"There is no reason to be afraid, my dear. This is your destiny."

She wanted to ask what would happen if she failed, if she stood up on stage and forgot all her training, but she could not summon the words. She stared at the floor and twisted her hands.

"Christine," the Angel said, in a tone he reserved for when she was feeling doubtful, a tone that reminded her very much of her father, "I said 'almost.' I did not mean tomorrow. It's not something I will spring on you suddenly. You will be so thoroughly prepared that you could not possibly falter. Trust me."

The sick feeling in her gut began to ease, her heartbeat began to slow. Whether his voice, or the words themseves were more responsible for calming her frazzled nerves, she could not say. A slight feeling of unease continued to cause her hands to shake, but it was nothing she could not handle. Her father's death had taught her to soldier on despite her sorrow; her current life was teaching her to treat anxiety in the same fashion.

Between her lesson and rehearsal, she decided it would do her good to visit the stable.

"I'm sorry," she apologized as César nuzzled her palms, searching for sugar cubes, "I came unprepared today. But you will still be my friend, won't you?"

He nickered softly, and turned from nuzzling her hands to her face.

"I thought so."

She stroked the horse's soft, white nose, while whispering nonsense to him about how he was the sweetest, smartest, handsomest horse in the entire world. She also promised to come back tomorrow thoroughly prepared with treats. Before leaving, she took a quick glance around to make sure no one else was present, then she leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to the bridge of César's nose. As she left, she happily noted that the slight tremor in her hands had subsided.

The horse's calming influence lasted through most of rehearsal that day, until she realized that at some point, the Angel must mean for her to replace La Carlotta. She was not quite certain what she had thought beforehand, but that was the only thing that made sense, as their voices were suited to similar roles. There were, of course, some operas where they could both hold substantial roles, but not enough to ensure it would happen on a regular basis. Newly uncomfortable, she could not stop herself from stealing glances at the diva throughout rehearsal. There were times when Christine thought that her acting and ornamentation were over the top, but there was no denying that Carlotta was very talented, and in the prime of her career. Before the Angel, she could not have hoped to attain the same level of vocal prowess. She felt guilty knowing that with only a few months of work, she could unseat another woman from a career she deserved, a career she had undoubtedly worked very hard to build.

After rehearsal was over, Carlotta caught Christine before she could leave. "Why did you keep looking at me like that?"

Christine was unable to meet the other woman's eyes. She needed a moment to form a coherent response.

"Well?" Carlotta inquired, impatience evident in her voice and her stance.

In a voice soft enough to keep any eavesdroppers from hearing, she replied, "I was merely thinking that you deserve your position. You must have worked very hard to be where you are."

"Really?" Christine could tell that she was examining the statement for sarcasm, or some hidden meaning.

"Yes," she responded simply.

The Spanish diva's face softened in a way Christine did not find entirely comforting. "Oh, Daaé," she sighed, "You odd girl. You are far too... nice for this life."

Christine did not feel it was her place to question the Angel, but she hoped that however he planned her rise to stardom, it would not inadvertently harm another person's career. She was certain he would never do so on purpose. She trusted in his inherent goodness; he was, after all, an instrument of God. Maybe Carlotta would get a better offer somewhere else, maybe after a performance or two, Christine herself would. However things worked out, she needed to have faith that it would be what was best for everyone involved.

 **Note:** Thanks for reading, reviewing, etc. And Dkk5 - I hope that sets you at ease.


	7. Chapter 7

The fog settled over them, thick and impenetrable, rendering the ship all but immobile. Only the view from the crow's nest offered any indication of their surroundings, and even that was severely limited. When Raoul allowed himself to think about it, he had to fight the urge to fly into a panic. They were in the Arctic sea, where ice was always a possibility, and they could not see. He kept his calm by forcing himself to concentrate on the dreamlike atmosphere the fog created. He could almost convince himself that he was not truly there, and would wake up at any time. Christine would have appreciated it; she would have made a game of it, insisting that they imagine themselves in a fairy tale, or a Gothic novel. He did his best to record brief, but thorough descriptions of it; had he possessed any artistic talent, he would have made her a series of sketches. As it was, he didn't think that even she would want a bunch of scribbles a child could have drawn. Well, she would have found it amusing, but not enough for him to waste paper on a joke. The fog would have to lift eventually, and when it did, he hoped very much to see a narwhal; that would certainly be something she would appreciate. As it was, they might have been surrounded by the strange whales, but they never would have known it. He had discovered that thinking of everything in terms of how he could describe it to Christine helped to ease the pain of their separation, and helped him to find some interest in what he was doing. He still missed her terribly, but it had become an old injury with a persistent dull ache instead of a gaping wound.

Though his frame of mind was better, he still would have preferred to be home with her. He had decided to make more of an effort to be social, but Albert was the only person with whom he felt really comfortable. That was fine with Raoul; he had always been the sort of person who preferred having a few close friends over a large circle of acquaintances. Raoul found himself becoming less guarded, and Albert was an easy person to be around. He was congenial, he didn't usually talk too much, nor did he seem to mind when Raoul was not in the mood to talk. By the end of everything, Raoul thought they would probably be very good friends. It made him a little angry, because he wanted to be able to go home and tell his brother that he was wrong and everything about the entire ordeal was awful. "You were wrong; it was horrible, and this is my new friend," did not quite have the same impact as "You were wrong; it was horrible, and everyone hated me."

Truthfully, he no longer thought that everyone else hated him, just that they wondered at his presence aboard the ship. He had considered himself disliked, until he chanced to overhear a conversation about himself between Albert and the first engineer. It was then that he realized that he was more of an object of curiosity than anything else.

"This wasn't his idea, was it?" the first engineer asked.

"Maybe at one point it was," Albert answered, "But in the end, I don't believe it was.

"He does precisely what he needs to do, no one can fault him, but he acts like a well-behaved prisoner. As soon as he has a moment, he shuts himself away from everyone else. I would think that he actively disliked everyone, if he weren't so damned polite when he's forced to interact. I understand being quiet, or a bit shy, but that cannot account for all of it. He doesn't act like someone who has the slightest desire to be here."

Raoul had never told Albert that he had tried to get out of the expedition, but he had told him more and more about Christine, and obviously Albert had figured things out for himself, for he replied, "I'm certain he does not. I don't know that he ever tried - he is not very forthcoming on the subject - but I believe he would have welcomed the opportunity to back out, and I do not think his brother would have liked it very much."

"Of course not. How embarrassing would that be for him? Going to all that trouble to get his brother on this expedition, and then having to get him out of it. What would people say? Can't have people thinking his brother is a coward, can he?"

"That was probably a factor, but there is another - a girl. I think his not wanting to be here has more to do with her than anything else. Without going into details, I know he's very serious about her, and though I don't know the whole story, I doubt his brother approves. _._ "

"Oh..." the first engineer gave a sad little half-laugh. "So he does actually talk to you? I wondered if he did... This seems like a very extreme way to keep him away from a girl."

"I'm sure there is much more to it than that, but yes. And please, keep this between us. He never said I shouldn't tell anyone else about her, but it's not my story to tell."

Raoul didn't mind that Albert had told someone else about Christine, and the rest of it was most likely apparent to everyone. It left him feeling unsettled. He could handle people not liking him; this was something different. He knew at that moment that he had to stop sulking, had to at least feign some interest in his current life. He was the Vicomte de Chagny. He should not be an object of pity, and he certainly didn't want people thinking him cowardly or childish. Albert had a wife, and a little daughter. He did not speak of them often, but when he did, his affection was evident. He certainly wasn't the only person on board with a family. If Albert, and everyone else, could hold it together, so could Raoul. It did not matter that they had wanted to be here and he did not; he could not change his situation, and it was time he started dealing with it in a better way.

He stopped shutting himself in his cabin at the first opportunity. Once the fog had effectively trapped them, stopping so much of their day-to-day work, there was very little to do other than socialize. He still did not say much, but at least he was around other people, interacting in a somewhat normal manner. Albert never said a word to him about the sudden change in his behavior, though he could tell that his new friend was pleased when he joined in a game of cards for the first time, instead of locking himself away again. He only wished he'd started being social earlier. It helped the time pass.

Quite suddenly, as though someone had pulled a blanket off them, the fog lifted. It was far from the relief the crew had expected. They had all known there would be ice, even in the summer months. No one had expected that there would be so much it as far south as they still were. Raoul was right there to see the color drain from the captain's face as the man realized there was no maneuvering out of it. All they could do was drift along, hoping for the best, until they hit clearer waters.

They wouldn't starve; they could easily sustain themselves by hunting from the ship. The biggest worry was striking the ice, but with as little as they could move, they wouldn't be hitting anything at a fast pace. No, the panic rising in Raoul's chest wasn't due to a sudden impending doom, but the possibility of a slow, lingering one. He'd heard stories of ships trapped in ice, drifting for months, years even. Perhaps this was the same fate suffered by those they were supposed to be rescuing, and in three years time, another rescue expedition would be mounted for the crew of the _Requin._ He had never wished himself home more than in that moment; he wished them all home. How old would Albert's daughter be by the time she saw her father again? What if she never did?

Raoul had a passing thought that if they were stuck indefinitely, and he made it home only after several years, he would certainly have earned the right to say "I told you so" to his brother. Philippe would probably feel so guilty that he would even relent on the subject of Christine. It almost made him laugh out loud, though he was glad he did not. He would have looked like a lunatic, and he did not want people speculating about his sanity in addition to the rest.


	8. Chapter 8

Though he still considered the scenario highly unlikely, Erik had begun the actual work of readying his home for Christine. It was good to stay busy. It had been some time since he'd felt called to work on _Don Juan Triumphant_ , and he could only spend so much time watching over her and minding the managers. If Erik allowed himself to be idle for too long, his mind began to wander to very dark places that were best forgotten. The guest room was carefully redecorated with her in mind, though he kept his mother's furniture. Christine would probably appreciate the sentimentality; as for himself, he was never sure why he wanted to keep reminders of his mother, only that he did. Now, he was working on collecting clothing and other things she might need. If he did decide that she needed to stay with him, he doubted circumstances would be such that she would be packing beforehand. He knew which colors suited her best - pink gave her pale complexion a rosy glow, blue brought out her eyes, purple did a little of both - but he was no expert on women's clothing. Everything he procured for her on that front was strongly reminiscent of clothing she already owned. He hoped she would appreciate the gesture, if for no other reason than that so much of her own clothing was far from new. She was nowhere near walking around in rags, but she had been wearing most of her clothing since she first came to the Opera. Her underthings were the only items truly beginning to show wear. As he handled one of her new chemises, he pictured her wearing only that; he would push the hem up around her hips, and bury his face between her thighs. Had the Vicomte ever done that to her? Jealousy stabbed at him. No matter what happened to the boy, or between Christine and Erik, he could not imagine that she would ever permit him to touch her in such a way. He would consider himself lucky in the extreme if she ever took his arm. In his best case scenario, he could only hope to gain her companionship. Even if he managed to perfect a mask that would make him look completely normal, he could not think she would want him as he wanted her. Having her near him, and watching her excel under his tutelage would have to be enough.

From a purely technical standpoint, Christine was ready. Her voice would continue to change and grow, but he was confident that she could easily out sing and out act Carlotta. Perhaps if he had approached her much earlier, before the boy had come along, she would have been less distracted. He had started making sure she was thoroughly prepared for every role that suited her in every upcoming production. She did splendidly with Juliette, but had balked at the idea of actually performing.

"What about Carlotta?" she asked with confusion in her eyes, when he brought up the idea.

Why she cared in the slightest about a person who had never shown any concern for her was beyond him. If their roles had been reversed, Carlotta would not have thought twice about stealing a role from Christine - he was sure of it. Erik was glad he was still in the guise of the Angel, because if that barrier had not been between them, he would have lost his temper. He had ended that day by drinking quite a bit more than he usually did. She would never get anywhere in this business if she continued to completely lack self-interest; yet if she suddenly started promoting herself without regard to others, she would no longer be the sweet girl who had captivated him so thoroughly.

Erik did not want to do this to her, but he was moving forward without waiting for her consent. He didn't see where he had a choice. Once she was thrust into the spotlight, she would shine. He wished that her vehicle could have been _Faust_ , but he was not patient enough to wait for another production of it. It was a pity because she would make a magnificent Marguerite. Instead, her new voice would be revealed as Violetta; vocally, it was an excellent role for her, and it would certainly be a testament to her improved acting skills.

* * *

She did not know it yet, but Carlotta was going to be ill that evening. Nothing life threatening - that would have upset Christine far too much - just something that would leave her incapable of performing. Erik's plan was as ingenious as it was simple. Cats were easy enough to come by; there were always plenty of strays running around. Not all of them were completely hostile. Carlotta was so sensitive to them that he did not actually have to leave it in the room with her, just let the cat wander around her dressing room, get comfortable for a while and then remove it before she was any the wiser. A note to the managers about Christine, and everything would fall into place.

Erik tried to carry the gray female cat with some dignity, but the normally congenial animal struggled, growling, hissing, and trying to bite when he picked it up. He ended up carrying it by its scruff while it continued to fuss. When he finally reached Carlotta's dressing room, he practically tossed the cat into the floor. The cat rushed at him, swatting his ankles with its claws out. Had a human shown him that level of aggression, there would have been hell to pay; with a cat, he found it mildly amusing. The little beast soon lost interest in attacking Erik, and began to slink around the room, regarding its new location with suspicion and the occasional hiss. Erik left the cat alone to get comfortable, figuring that his presence wasn't helping it to settle down when it had been so eager to attack him only moments ago. When he returned to retrieve the cat, it was hiding under Carlotta's fainting couch. He only managed to extract it after several attempts. His hands were now covered in bite marks and blood dripped down into his sleeve. The cat's temper was no longer amusing him, but since it was doing him a favor, he tolerated it. Besides, the attack barely registered as painful in his mind, and even if it scarred, it couldn't possibly make his skeletal hands any uglier than they already were.

* * *

He could have written his note to the managers in his own blood instead of red ink. The cat had certainly drawn enough of it. Maybe that would be a tactic worth considering in the future. There were certain situations where real blood might do a better job of getting his point across. On this particular occasion, it seemed unnecessary. Though Erik viewed all of his advice as helpful, it was rarely appreciated. He had an inkling that this would be different.

He was not disappointed. He stood on the other side of the office wall, listening to them fret.

"How can she do this?" Moncharmin complained, "All because of puffy eyes and a few sneezes!"

"In her defense, she was also coughing," Richard said.

"It was only a little cough! She's fine!"

"She shouldn't sing if she's coughing." Richard was looking at Moncharmin as though he thought him a complete idiot.

Erik usually enjoyed watching them argue, but right now, he wanted them to see the note on the desk.

"That's a very easy thing to say, but what are we supposed to do? This place... If it isn't ghosts that need a salary, it's petty drama from performers."

"It isn't petty drama to not be able to sing when one is sick! What would you have her do? Stand on stage, sneezing and coughing?" Richard defended Carlotta.

"What are we supposed to do about tonight?"

By this point, Erik was considering yelling at them to look at the desk. They continued bickering in the same manner until finally, Richard happened to glance at the desk.

"Oh good God," he groaned, rolling his eyes, "This is just what we need right now." He picked up the note, showing the envelope to Moncharmin.

"We may as well see what he has to say," Moncharmin said. "If we've learned anything, it's that O.G. will be heard, whether we like it or not."

Richard tore open the envelope. "Christine Daaé knows Carlotta's role, blocking and all... Why?"

"Who cares?" Moncharmin replied, "We have a Violetta."

"Her voice is... not terrible, but I don't think she could do the part justice. And she seems far too wide-eyed and innocent for the role," Richard reasoned.

"Who cares? A subpar Violetta is better than none," Moncharmin argued. "At least half the audience isn't there for the music anyway. She's a very pretty girl; I don't think most people will mind looking at her for one night instead of Carlotta."

"I suppose you're right," Richard agreed with a sigh.

Erik wished he could be there to see their faces when they realized how wrong they were. Everything was going exactly as he had planned, only his face was hurting for some reason. He removed his mask with one hand, and explored his face with the other. There was nothing wrong; only a wide smile that had been sustained longer than he was accustomed.

* * *

Christine had shut herself in her dressing room. Her face was white and her gaze unfocused.

"You can do this," Erik told her, half-expecting her to start crying, fully expecting her to insist that she could not.

"I can," she agreed, to his surprise. "You will be with me, so I can't possibly fail."

"I will not leave your side."

She smiled radiantly, and though he knew it was inadvertent, looked directly at the place where he stood behind the wall. Had it not been there, she would have been looking up into his eyes.

His heart beat faster, and his hands began to shake slightly. Hers were too, though he knew her reasons were different.

A knock on the door interrupted them, followed by a "Mlle. Daaé?" And she was gone.

He did not have a chance to speak to her again until directly before the performance. She asked to be left alone in her dressing for a moment, and as soon as she perceived that the maid was out of earshot, she called out to him.

"I am right here, my child. I was with you all day," he answered her.

She nodded. "And you will not leave me alone up there?"

"Not for a second." He wished he could hold her and cover her face with kisses. Coming from him, that sort of affection was more likely to cause her to die than to give her any sort of comfort, but he was allowed to dream, wasn't he?

He offered her one final reassurance, and then told her that he would not speak to her again until after the performance, so as not to hurt her concentration. The truth was that his ability to throw his voice did not extend far enough to allow him to whisper in her ear from Box Five. If he'd wanted to shout something at her, he could have, but for obvious reasons, that wouldn't do. It would be all right; her faith in the Angel was keeping her relatively calm.

Did the other performers wonder at Christine's serenity before taking on so large a role without a past precedent in her career? Surely it was nothing compared to their shock when she opened her mouth and sang, when she shed the seemingly constant aura of innocence that hovered around her and became Violetta. The first act ended to thunderous applause. Erik was so proud of her, and so proud of himself for helping her to bring such pure beauty into the world.

From his vantage point inside the hollow column of Box Five, he could not see the occupants of the other boxes. He hoped that the Comte de Chagny was in attendance that night. As much as everything good in Erik's life hinged on the Vicomte's prolonged absence, he wanted the Comte to feel guilty for the pain he'd caused Christine. Erik wanted him to see that his brother was the one wasn't worthy of her, not the other way around.

 **Note:** Thanks again for reading, reviewing, etc. I do appreciate it. If you notice glaring errors, it's probably because this chapter was typed on a tablet, and I have a serious case of beach brain.


	9. Chapter 9

There were times during the performance when the creeping feeling that her voice was not her own nearly overtook Christine, but she pushed it down and kept going. She could not allow herself to fail; she owed it to the Angel, not to mention the public humiliation if she did. Now that it was over, she knew he must be happy with her. How could he not be? She had poured her soul into the music, she had become Violetta, and there was nothing more she could give. The applause were deafening. Her head spun from the heat, the sound, and the feel of so many eyes upon her. She struggled to breathe as her limbs became heavier and heavier; she didn't have the strength to fight as they weighed her down, pulling her to the floor.

She slowly became aware of male voices all around her, and of the familiar feeling of the couch in her dressing room beneath her. Someone's hand rested on her forehead. She could have opened her eyes at that point, but she chose to keep them closed, willing the crush of men to depart. She could not imagine the amount of attention she would be enduring if she hadn't fainted.

"Don't you think, Doctor, that those gentlemen ought to clear the room?" A voice she recognized, but could place cut through the din.

The doctor agreed with the speaker, politely but firmly insisting that everyone leave. The man who had spoken was not obviously not included in the doctor's edict. She wondered if he were someone important, or if the doctor thought he had the right to be there. Once she heard the click of the door shutting, she reluctantly opened her eyes, looking first at her maid and the doctor to reassure herself, before turning to face the owner of the authoritative voice. Christine jumped a little when she saw that it was the Comte de Chagny. She could not fathom a reason for his being there. He made her nervous in ordinary circumstances, and now she was almost afraid of finding out why he was there. She wasn't sure what she should have expected after the performance, but she had hoped to share her triumph with the Angel, then go home, write a long letter to Raoul, and go to bed. She did not envision having what was bound to be an uncomfortable conversation with Raoul's brother.

She knew she should say something to him, but she didn't know what. She chose to address everyone in the room instead.

"I think I am well now; I was only overwhelmed." She pushed herself up to a sitting position and hazarded another glance at the Comte. He was regarding her with an expression of curiosity. He looked less stern than usual, so perhaps whatever he wanted would not be so bad.

"Mlle. Daaé," the Comte began, "I wanted to speak with you privately."

Before she could respond, the doctor said, "Perhaps there is a better time? The young lady is ill."

"I'm fine." Christine smiled at the doctor. She appreciated the effort, but whatever he wanted to say to her, she'd rather know now, than have it hanging over her head. With far more confidence than she had, she continued, "I'm sure it is perfectly safe to leave me with the Comte."

"Very well," the doctor agreed with some reluctance. The maid started to leave, too, regarding Christine and the Comte with round eyes. Christine shook her head, signalling to the maid that she should stay. The other woman's face relaxed as she shut the door, and took up a position in the farthest possible corner of the small room.

"You must forgive me," Christine said to the Comte. "I am not in the habit of entertaining men in my dressing room. I cannot have you in here without someone else being present."

He shrugged his shoulders. "That seems consistent with what my brother has told me, and you must forgive me; there is no reason this could not wait until later. It's only that I don't like waiting. All I want is to know if my brother knows you can sing like that?"

Why would he want to know that? Why was it so important that he needed to know right now? She answered him all the same, figuring that if she cooperated, this would be over sooner. "I couldn't sing like that when he was still here."

"You are studying with someone new then?"

How to answer? Mamma knew all about the Angel, and she'd mentioned her new instructor to Raoul in a letter. But if she told this man she did not really know about a new instructor, he would want to know who it was, and then what would she say? She had to say something, and the only answer that came to mind was, "I've been studying on my own."

"Indeed?" he inquired skeptically.

"Yes," she answered, "It is something to occupy my mind."

He continued to regard her with skepticism. She schooled her face into the most guileless expression possible. If Christine had one effective defense mechanism, it was her ability to look completely innocent and earnest in almost any situation.

To her surprise, it appeared to work, or at least he chose to play along. "On your own, truly?"

She looked down at her hands in her lap. "Well, using the training I have had as a guide... Not entirely on my own. It really was only a matter of effort." She endeavored to say it in a way that would be believed, but she knew her lie was thoroughly absurd.

He smiled. It was not an unpleasant smile, and though his face would never hold the warmth that Raoul's did, he looked very much like an older version of his brother at that point. Ever so slightly, it put her at ease. "So this is only the difference between trying and not trying?"

She nodded. "I have more time on my hands now. I might as well push my capabilities to their limits."

"Why would you keep your genius hidden like you did for so long? And here I was wondering how you were paying for instruction..."

She started. Just what was he suggesting? She was very aware that he wanted to separate her from his brother. Had he really come here looking for something with which to accuse her?

"Since I have no instructor, there is no one in need of payment," she answered quietly, studying her hands.

"I did not mean to imply anything untoward," he said.

"Of course not." Perhaps he had not realized how it sounded until he said it. "Again, you must forgive me, it has been a long day, and I am quite tired."

"I should take my leave, then."

After he bid her goodbye and left, the maid helped Christine out of her costume and into her street clothing. She felt like she owed the other woman now, but she wasn't sure what she could do to thank her for staying in the room, so she simply thanked her profusely for all of her assistance.

Once she was alone, she called out, "Angel?"

With no greeting, in a tone so cold it made her shiver, his voice filled the room. "The nerve of that man - demanding your time, only so he can ask ridiculous questions, and then deny the implications of what he was saying."

"He is only looking out for his brother," she tried to justify the Comte's words.

"I don't care what he was doing. He shouldn't have suggested those things about you!"

Wanting to steer the topic of conversation away from the Comte de Chagny and his perceived behavior, she said, "It is no matter; if he meant to imply something, I'm sure he realizes now that he was wrong. Don't we have more important things to discuss?"

"Of course, you are right; he is of no consequence." Christine knew that certainly wasn't true, but she didn't want to argue. "Are you very tired?" He asked with a complete shift in tone.

"I gave you my soul, and I am dead," she answered, lying back down.

"Your soul is a very beautiful thing, my child," the Angel replied. "No emperor ever received so fair a gift. The angels wept tonight."

She didn't know how to respond to that much praise; saying thank you certainly wouldn't be sufficient, so she stayed silent.

After a moment, he said, "Are you sure you are fine?"

"I think so... just tired." Christine could never tell him that singing like she did sometimes frightened her. "I don't know if I even have the energy to get up and go home." Becoming pensive, she asked, "What do I tell people when they ask about an instructor? I'm sure he won't be the only one, and I know I sounded ridiculous telling him that this voice came from practicing on my own. I can't very well say who you are. They'd put me away."

"I would never let that happen," he replied, offering no solution to her problem. "You should get up and go home before you fall asleep here."

"Oh, you are right," she agreed stretching as she stood. "I wouldn't want to worry Mamma."

"I could not have imagined a more perfect student than you; you've made me happier than you could ever know. Goodnight, my dear."

She paused on her way out the door. The words were themselves were effusively kind, but nothing terribly remarkable, given the circumstances. The tone with which they were uttered, however, was filled with such warmth, such obvious affection that she found herself blushing. If her teacher were a man speaking thus, she would be very suspicious about the nature of his feelings toward her.

"Thank you," she stammered before leaving the room. It was absurd. He was an angel; he was the only being other than Raoul, herself, and the priest, that knew of their marriage. Surely angels did not develop inappropriate attachments to humans. She shook her head. No, she was merely reading into it because the Angel's voice sounded like a man's. If the Angel spoke with a woman's voice, the idea never would have occurred to her. She must be overtired, and would no doubt stop having such ridiculous notions after a good night's sleep.

 **Note:** I'm sure this is riddled with errors, and I apologize. I've tried to proofread as effectively as I can, but I've been very easily distracted of late.


	10. Chapter 10

Philippe had never heard anyone sing quite like Christine Daaé just had. How had she learned to do that? He had seen her perform smaller roles countless times, but her voice had only been a shadow of the one she revealed that night. He wondered if Raoul knew what she'd been hiding from the world. If he did, Philippe thought it might explain some of his extreme attachment to the girl. There must be something about her beyond a pretty face and a nice figure to inspire such dogged devotion; plenty of girls possessed those attributes, but his brother had only made a fool of himself over this one. If Raoul did not know about her voice, there had to be a reason for that, as well. Why would she hide such a thing from him, unless she had other things to hide? He knew Raoul's overly romantic disposition well, and knew that any notions of marriage were likely just as much his as hers, but he knew nothing about her beyond his brother's endless lovesick ramblings. Contrary to what Raoul thought, Philippe would never have had the idea of separating the two of them if it weren't for all the marriage talk. Though he could admit it was perhaps a bit unfair to the girl, Philippe could not help but be suspicious of her because of it. If there were some unpleasant truth to be discovered, he would rather be the one discover it, so that he could shield Raoul from the blow.

After the doctor had sent the accumulated crowd away, Philippe watched as the girl slowly opened her eyes. She was clearly startled to see him. Still, she told the doctor that it was fine to leave her with him. He noticed that the maid seemed shocked that Christine would be left alone in a closed room with him, which was a point in her favor. Unless the maid belonged on the stage herself, there was no faking that reaction. That she indicated the maid should stay also spoke to Raoul's account of her character. Of course, Philippe could not rule out that she was perhaps clever enough to have everyone fooled.

Once he began to question her, it became obvious that she was lying to him. Philippe was no expert, but he knew she had to be studying with someone. She did not look or sound like a liar; on the contrary, she looked positively angelic. He prided himself on his ability to read people, and he did not see a dishonest person in front of him. Yet, her story made no sense. Unless the girl was some sort of late blooming savant, there had to be a teacher somewhere. A voice like that did not come from solitary practice and a bit of effort, and certainly not in a few short months. Philippe could only think of two reasons she would not divulge that information to him - she was either doing something she should not be, or for some reason, she had been told to stay silent. To his mind, the first scenario was far more likely, but at the barest hint of it, she seemed highly offended. It was not chagrin at having been found out; no, the cast of her eyes, and the look on her face spoke of indignation at being wrongfully accused. Perhaps the second scenario was the correct one? Who in the world would not wish to receive some of the credit for her performance that night? Something unusual was happening with Christine Daaé. Perhaps it was nothing, but for Raoul's sake, he wanted to know the truth. He knew he would not get anywhere tonight; she was obviously exhausted, and would not suddenly change her mind and start talking.

* * *

La Sorelli stroked Philippe's hair while he lay in her arms. He could easily have drifted off to sleep like this, if he weren't so preoccupied. He had hoped that an evening with his favorite dancer would take his mind off the girl his brother loved; for a while, it had, but now he was back to where he had started. He shifted slightly in his mistress's embrace.

"Do you know anything about Christine Daaé's sudden improvement?" he asked drowsily.

The soothing hand in his hair immediately stopped. "You really shouldn't ask me about other women when we're in bed together. How would you like it if I started asking questions about some male acquaintance of yours right now?"

He sighed. Damn his tired brain. He should have known better; of course she would take it personally.

"You wouldn't like it," she said testily. He lifted his head from her breast to look at her face; her lovely eyes were narrowed in irritation.

"Rita... I'm not asking for myself. You must know that," he explained, placing a kiss on her clavicle. She could be so ridiculous at times - carrying that dagger everywhere, trying to convince him of the Opera Ghost's existence, expressing jealousy over every little thing. He often wondered what had happened in her life to make her so paranoid, but he also knew there was no way of asking without upsetting her. He pushed himself off her entirely, so that he was sitting up, looking her in the eye. If he did not say just the right thing, she would start pouting, and then he'd never find out anything from her. If he really upset her, she would refuse to see him until he apologized with an expensive gift. He never had a problem finding other company when she did such things, yet he preferred her to any other woman, and she knew it. "I would never have any interest in her, if it weren't for my brother's sake."

"Really? Even after the other night? You aren't even a little intrigued for yourself? It seems like everyone else is..."

"No, I am not." Christine was far too associated with Raoul in his mind for him to ever consider her as a prospect for himself. Even had that not been the case, pretty and talented as she was, she seemed far too innocent, too sedate, and too blonde for his tastes.

She nodded with pursed lips, her irritation written on plainly on all her features. "Is this the only reason you came to see me tonight? To ask me questions about Christine Daaé? You didn't want to see me at all, did you?"

"No, no," he soothed, picking up one of her hands and kissing her knuckles. "I always want to see you."

"Do you really?" She was either on the verge of tears, or she was about to start castigating him. Possibly both.

"Yes," he replied, "Always." He kissed her hand again. "You must know that." Her face softened and flung herself at him, pushing him onto his back. In a moment, she was straddling him, her delicate hands grasping his wrists and pinning them over his his head. At times Philippe wondered why he put up with her volatility. There were plenty of beautiful woman who would have jumped at the chance to fill her place in his life, and they would not have been nearly as difficult. They probably wouldn't have been as much fun, either.

* * *

Philippe waited in the foyer, holding Rita's gaiters. When she finished her performance, she darted up to him with a pleased smile. A thin sheen of sweat shone on her heavily made up face.

As was usual, between admirers and various members of the corps de ballet, the hallway outside her dressing room was a crowded place. On this particular occasion, several of the girls insisted on invading her dressing room to tell her some tale about the Opera Ghost. Philippe ignored their prattling as he usually did when such things happened, though he did notice that the littlest dancer, the plain one with the lively dark eyes, was particularly animated. Rita put on a brave face in front of the girls, but he knew that was all it was.

Once they were finally alone, she indicated that he should sit, and she positioned herself on his lap. She trembled slightly. Whatever had been said about the Ghost, she knew better than to discuss it with him, unless she wanted to be reminded of how silly he considered the entire thing. Still, since she was upset by whatever had been said, so he stroked her back in big circles, trying to calm her.

"I... I could not find out anything useful about Christine Daaé," she said, making an obvious effort to sound collected. "She is, as always, friendly to everyone without actually being friends with anyone. No one has seen her with anyone, and though everyone agrees she must be studying with someone, no one knows who it might be... And when asked, she says she is not studying with anyone. Considering that somehow the managers knew she could sing the role, some people are saying they are involved."

Why hadn't he considered that before? Maybe Richard himself had been working with her. Did he ever do that sort of thing? Even if he did not, he may have recognized something in her voice, and found a teacher for her, all on the condition of silence. It certainly made more sense than the other scenarios that had been playing out in his mind. Philippe was left where he had started with the conundrum of his brother and Christine, but at least it was no worse than before. He would try to confirm his new suspicion at a later date. Right now, Rita was looking at him expectantly.

"Thank you." He gave her a fond smile, which she returned with a kiss.

"You are a very good brother," she said before kissing him again. He owed her something nice for putting his mind at ease.

 **Note:** Philippe needed his own chapter after that last one. He'll check in again every once in a while. Thanks again for reading and reviewing.


	11. Chapter 11

Instead of romantic descriptions of fog, visions of an ice monster were now occupying Raoul's brain. The frozen hand of some leviathan creature had risen from the sea, had grabbed the ship in its fist, and would not let go. All they could do was wait for it to grow bored and crush them in its grasp before tossing them away. If he'd had more paper, he would have written down his peculiar thoughts, but he preferred to save his paper for the letters he could not send. He knew his brother and sisters would have no interest in his musings, and the thoughts running through his mind were darker than anything he wanted to tell Christine. It was a shame; writing would have given him an outlet for his fear and melancholy, and it would have been something to help relieve the boredom. He had thought the fog taught him to understand the strange mix of boredom and terror that was plaguing the expedition, but he'd had no idea. There was no sense of dreamy beauty to the ice; there was nothing to allow him to divorce his mind from the reality of potential doom all around them. Every day brought them that much closer to winter, making the chance of finding a break in the ice that much slimmer. They could see the northern reaches of Greenland from the crow's nest, but without abandoning ship, they could not reach it. Even if it came to that, Greenland's northern shores would not offer much respite. What would they do there? Hope there were some friendly natives somewhere close by? Just keep heading south until they hit civilization? The difference between being stranded on the ship and stranded on land seemed minimal at this point. There was nothing to be done, and very little to distract his mind from the situation.

There were only so many card games that could be played, so many stories to be heard. The crew had turned the necessary job of hunting from the deck into a competitive sport, killing far more animals than they needed for subsistence. Any kill was awarded one point; more points were awarded depending on the kind of animal killed. There was constant debate over how many points should be awarded for which animal, and whether or not style should be taken into account. Once, Raoul and the ship's physician had gotten a bear in a joint effort; it was decided that the bear was worth five points, but they'd had to split the points between the two of them. Dr Laurent was disappointed with the conclusion, but Raoul had not cared in the slightest. He only participated so that no one would question his lack of participation. He understood the appeal of the game, because it was a diversion, but he did not enjoy it the way so many of the others presumably did. He had never been terribly interested in hunting, and was not one to take pleasure any sort of unnecessary suffering, human or animal. There were several times he'd bitten his lip to keep from saying something he would later regret; he did not want to be seen as a spoilsport, or to be thought weak. Raoul wished the gruesome game had never been started. Every time his aim was true, and someone clapped him on the back, proclaiming the number of points he earned, he felt slightly ill, and had to work to school his face into any expression that would not reflect the mild repulsion he felt. While others turned to hunting as their choice of distraction, Raoul turned to his own fantastical musings, allowing the ice monster to occupy his mind. He had even begun developing complete stories, and was determined to write them down once it was feasible.

The idea first came to him in a nightmare, and had replayed itself several times. The dream started out pleasantly enough; he was with his siblings at some family gathering or other. His father had been there, alive and well, and Raoul had the sense that his father's presence would solve everything. He would patch up the rift between the brothers; he would allow Raoul to marry Christine, and Philippe would have to accept it. He had known he was dreaming at that point - his father would have been no more amenable to Raoul marrying a singer than Philippe. Still, it was a nice fantasy, and he didn't want to wake. So slowly that he barely noticed it at first, frigid water began to creep into the room. It came through the walls, lapping against their feet. No one else remarked upon the water, or seemed to notice at all. Raoul was so cold he could not stop his teeth from chattering. As the water continued to rise, he began to feel a slight tug on his leg. At first he dismissed it, but the pressure of the grip increased, and he felt himself being pulled backward. He tried unsuccessfully to shake it off. Finally, he looked down and saw that his leg was grasped between the tips of something positively enormous, something that was a sickly bluish white. Though he could not make out what held his leg, somehow he knew that it was a massive hand. As soon as this revelation sunk into his brain, the hand gave a tug, and he was dragged under and out to sea. With the rush of water around him, and the inescapable grip of whatever creature held him, he knew he would die. If he did not drown, he would be crushed, or he would freeze. With that certainty, he awoke.

That dream had been the first of many. The opening scene would change, but the ending remained the same. He often dreamed of his siblings, but just as often, the dream would begin with Christine. They would walk along the sea in Brittany as they had when they were children, or they would do mundane everyday things, like dining together. There were other dreams of Christine that made him nearly grateful for the interference of the monster. As frustrated as they left him, at least the interruption kept his body in check. He swore he could actually smell and taste her. He could feel her skin beneath his fingertips; she was so warm and soft, so yielding. Of all his dreams, those were by far the most realistic, both in the beginning and at the end. The first time the dream had begun with that scenario, he'd actually yelped out loud and woken himself up, and Albert as well.

"Jesus Christ," Albert muttered.

"Sorry; nightmare," Raoul replied, feeling foolish, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"Be terrified quietly, please."

He hadn't been able to fall back asleep that night.

In the morning, Albert took one look at him and observed, "You look like hell. You weren't dreaming about being forced to kill seals, were you?"

"What? No!" Raoul felt slightly panicked. He hoped that no one else could see through him.

"Relax... I don't think anyone else knows you well enough to surmise just how much much you dislike killing things."

Though the tone of Albert's voice suggested that the comment was not meant to be unkind, Raoul still felt the need to explain himself. "It's one thing when we need to eat... it's entirely different when it serves no purpose. We can't even keep things as trophies. It seems like a waste."

Albert sighed. "But what else is there to do? Not everyone is capable of living inside his own head as you are."

"I know," Raoul agreed. "But no, my dream was not about hunting... I've had more or less the same nightmare a few times, but that was the worst one yet. It's the silliest thing; I keep dreaming that I'm killed by a giant being made of ice."

"That's not so silly, considering..."

Before Raoul knew it, he was relating the contents of his dreams, with certain omissions, and telling Albert all about his conscious musings.

When he was finished talking, Albert looked at him for a moment, as though he were trying to formulate a response. Raoul was afraid that he'd revealed too much of his mind's inner workings, and now his friend would him foolish. Then Albert said, "You might want to keep that to yourself until we're out of this mess, but you should write it down."

Raoul continued to muse upon his ideas. Even if they weren't the best thing to share with group of already disheartened people, at least he kept his mind occupied. He began to wonder if this were how Christine's father had gotten started with his story telling. The stories he related to Raoul and Christine had always been happy ones, but who knew what the man had kept to himself. Had he, too, been desperate to distract himself, to give some kind of meaning to a sad situation? Raoul had not thought much about it when they were children, but Christine and her father had not had an easy life. Who knew what would have become of them if it weren't for Professor and Mme. Valerius. At least they had been able to introduce a sense of stability into Christine's life. Once he was home, he would make sure she never felt insecure in anything, even for a moment.

Raoul had decided that he _would_ be making it home, even if no one else did. He had never been one to give up, and he was determined to find a way back. There were too many things he needed to do to allow himself to die up here. No amount of ice would defeat him in reality, no matter what happened in his dreams.

 **Note:** I apologize for the length of time it is taking me to get these chapters out lately. This particular chapter gave me a difficult time, and my daily writing time has been (temporarily, I hope) shortened.

As always, thanks for the reviews.


	12. Chapter 12

Meg Giry had developed her own theory regarding Christine Daaé. Once she had solidified her ideas, she busied herself telling everyone that it was not the management who had known of Christine's abilities, but the Opera Ghost. She would shake and cry, make a show of insisting that it was not safe to speak of the Ghost, and then proceed to do it anyway. Before the old managers had retired, the Ghost had insisted that Meg be moved to the front row as a favor to her mother. She knew, however, that if she had not been up to his standards, he never would have done so. If the he had done something to give her career a boost, then perhaps he had done the same for Christine. The Ghost's main concern, after all, was the quality of the Opera. While he sometimes stole things, took great pleasure in frightening the members of the corps de ballet, and (she strongly suspected – though most thought it a suicide) had killed poor Joseph Buquet all those months ago, he also advocated for performers whom he deemed worthy, and did his best to weed out those who were not. Through her mother, Meg _knew_ things about the Opera Ghost, or at least, believed that she did. She possessed the correct combination of intelligence, superstition, and youthful exuberance required to have figured out any number of truths that older, wiser individuals dismissed. Still, Meg had never known enough to cause Erik any alarm - she actually believed he was a ghost - and unlike Buquet, possessed enough sense not to go exploring where she was not wanted. Even now, she did not say that the Ghost had taught Christine to sing; she only thought that the ghost must have alerted the managers to Christine's hidden talent.

She had found a rapt audience with the other ballet girls, but more sensible people just shrugged their shoulders, and returned to the theory that somehow the managers were involved. Richard and Moncharmin themselves, apparently unwilling to let anyone know that they had taken advice from the Ghost, did nothing to dispel the rumors. For the first time since they had taken over the management of the Opera, Erik's salary was paid without having to resort to theft. This had put him in such a good mood that he found himself listening to Meg's incessant chatter about him without even daydreaming of frightening her into silence. Besides, Erik had always held a sort of distant, avuncular fondness for the tiny, black-haired dancer. Her mother had proven herself invaluable, and Meg was an amusing little creature. Though he had no way of following through on the promise that she would one day be an empress, he would do what he could to promote her career. She may not have been as pretty as the other girls, but she had far more personality. It only endeared her to him further that she was clever enough to figure out what no one else had.

* * *

If only the managers had been clever enough to replace Carlotta with Christine for the remainder of _La Traviata_ and all of her upcoming roles, Erik would have been the happiest he had ever been in his entire life. Naturally, they had not; Carlotta had a contract, and was a known name. She had returned for the next performance, and was now jealously guarding her roles, to the point where she had begun to make snide remarks to and about Christine at every given opportunity. She seemed to sincerely believe that Christine was campaigning against her, and was determined that everyone else should see it, too. Every time Carlotta spoke against Christine, he only became more determined to see her removed from her position. His first plan was to use her own spiteful tongue against her.

The next production was _La Juive,_ with Gabrielle Krauss returning in the title role, after having been away for the past year. Carlotta would be Eudoxie. The two ladies had shared the stage in many previous productions without incident, as they were suited to different roles. However, given the way Carlotta was behaving towards poor Christine, it was not difficult to make Krauss believe that Carlotta had turned on her. Carlotta had never been the actress Gabrielle Krauss was, and though she was certainly popular, had never quite reached the same level of critical acclaim. If she would abuse an unknown who had stood in for her for one night, then it wasn't too challenging to make people believe she would do the same to a woman whose star already eclipsed her own. Everyone knew Carlotta liked to be the center of attention.

A few whispers here and there in crowded rooms, so that no one was quite sure who had said what - only that Carlotta was the instigator, and soon the entire company believed that she was spreading vicious gossip in an attempt to deliberately undermine her costar. At first, Krauss shrugged it off. One did not rise to her level of fame without enduring a bit of unpleasantness from time to time, but Erik kept up his efforts. Just when he believed nothing would come from this approach, Krauss finally confronted Carlotta after rehearsal."If you have a problem with me, or with my performance, you should tell me, and not whisper it behind my back to anyone who will listen."

"Why would I have a problem with you?" Carlotta asked, appearing genuinely puzzled.

"I don't know," Krauss replied, "But you've certainly been speaking as though you do."

"I've not said a negative word about you."

"Indeed? And I suppose you've never said anything about that Daaé girl, either?"

Carlotta blanched, and Erik had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing.

Krauss continued, "I don't know what has gotten into you lately. You never used to be quite so petty."

"But I -"

Krauss held up a hand to silence Carlotta before turning and walking away.

Erik had hoped for more of a reaction, something dramatic. He'd wanted Gabrielle Krauss to refuse to work with Carlotta. If she did, he was sure the management would take her side. After all, they knew Christine could replace Carlotta at a moment's notice. If he kept it up, perhaps in time, things would go his way, but he was not a patient man. As much as it was frustrating him, he had to admit he admired Krauss's cool professionalism, and his efforts were not completely in vain, even if the results were not precisely what he had wanted. Krauss had begun going out of her way to speak to Christine. Of course, she would glare pointedly at Carlotta while she was doing it, but it could only be good for Christine's career to have someone of Krauss's stature paying attention to her. Still, he wanted Carlotta gone, and he did not want to wait longer than absolutely necessary. He had penned several notes addressed to her; they were just waiting to be delivered. She _would_ be gone by opening night, or at least, the following performance. Erik did not make idle threats.

* * *

Christine appeared to be taking Carlotta's behavior towards herself in stride, but she was puzzled by Carlotta's behavior towards Krauss. "I understand why Carlotta does not like me," she confided to him, "But I do not understand what she has against Gabrielle Krauss. She could not sing her roles any more than I could; why is she saying these things? It doesn't make sense."

"You are wrong on both counts," Erik corrected her, "It makes perfect sense that Carlotta is jealous of her after having been the sole leading lady while she was out of the country. Carlotta does not like sharing the spotlight. And with hard work, and a few years of development, you may well be able to sing anything Gabrielle Krauss can."

"I don't know about that..." She looked down at her feet and blushed prettily. "I know I could develop my lower register, but I doubt my voice would ever have that sort of power, or resonance."

"You might in time... you are young and your voice is still growing."

"She is very kind to me, you know. I think it is mostly because of the things Carlotta has been saying, but she is." Christine continued to examine the floor and blush. "May I ask you something?"

"You may ask me anything, dearest; surely you know that by now," he answered, wondering what she could be thinking of asking that had her flustered. He knew of course, that whatever her question, it would be benign, and he wished it was not. Just once, he wanted to make her blush, not as the Angel, but as Erik.

"How many people in a generation do you visit? I know you never visited my father, though he was the best violinist I've heard, except for you... Why do you visit some people and not others? Are some people so naturally talented they just don't need you, or is it something else?"

Erik felt slightly dizzy. He should have foreseen that she would ask something like this eventually, but he had not prepared an answer for her. The only way to answer, was to not answer. "Christine, time runs differently for me, so I cannot say how many people in a generation I have visited, and I cannot tell you who I have visited and who I have not. It is not allowed. I can tell you that I only visit those who are deserving of me, and that the number is very few."

She furrowed her brow. "Why is it not allowed?"

"Because it is not," he answered in his most authoritative voice.

She nodded without saying anything, and from the cast of her eyes, he thought he might have hurt her with his tone.

In a gentler voice, he comforted, "I know you have told your Mamma about me, and that is fine, but you must not tell other musicians about me... It will only make them more jealous of you."

"I understand," she said.

Erik wondered how much longer he could keep up the Angel charade. As trusting as she was, as much as the idea of the Angel seemed to fulfill some gap in her life, she would eventually figure out that something wasn't right. He did not want to lose her. Surely, she would forgive him for lying after all that he had done for her; she must.

* * *

Erik had followed Christine home on any number of occasions, but that night was the first he had let himself inside the flat she shared with her guardian. Once all was quiet and dark, it was only too easy for him to slip inside. With his all black attire, ability to move silently, and her poor eyesight, as long as he stayed still, he knew he could watch her sleep and be safe from discovery. She looked even more innocent than usual. Her every twitch, every little sigh, was completely adorable to him. She slept restlessly, alternating between cocooning herself in her covers and kicking them off. He fought the urge to move closer to the bed, to say, or do something to try to soothe her. When her eyes fluttered open, and she began to grope beneath her pillow for something, he was all the more glad that he had stayed so perfectly still. She pulled out the object for which she had been searching – an envelope – and he knew at once what it was. She pressed it to her breast, and then to her lips before slipping it back beneath her pillow. He wanted to tear it from her hands and rip into shreds. He wanted to lay his head over her heart, to feel her lips on his face. She settled down on her side, and soon fell back to sleep. It was torture not to move closer to the bed, not to smooth a few of her escaped locks back into her braid, not to lay his head on the pillow beside her, not to put her little fingers, which were curled so sweetly by her face, into his mouth. There was something dangerously intimate about not having the barrier of wall and mirror to restrain him. If he only had something to keep her in a sound a sleep, or to numb her into compliance – some anesthetic, or something to slip into a drink, it would be so easy to pick her up and carry her away. She couldn't weigh much. He reminded himself that must not do it without good reason, but how very simple it would be.

 **Note:** Thanks again for reading and reviewing. I'm sorry this chapter took so long to get out. I'm hoping things will calm down for me by the end of August.

I'm playing a bit with timelines here again, both fictional and real. I wanted to throw Gabrielle Krauss in there, and for my purposes, she needed to have been away for a bit.

It would be remiss of me not to acknowledge that end of this chapter is a nod to Neil Gaiman's short story, "Feminine Endings." There's one other reference, thrown in for my husband's amusement; it's a silly one, and if anyone picks up on it, I'll be impressed.


	13. Chapter 13

Sleep was an elusive thing that night; Christine could not get comfortable. One minute, she was too hot, the next, too cold. When she did manage to fall asleep, she dreamed of Raoul. He was always just out of reach, leaving her frustrated and sad. It was as if he had become a ghost, and no matter how she tried, she could not grasp him. If he dreamed of her, she hoped his dreams were more pleasant than hers. Every night, she prayed that she reached him in his sleep, to say that she loved him and missed him.

Before they had been reunited, she had often daydreamed about the time they had spent together - innocent recollections of the childhood friend she thought she'd lost. She was a grown woman now, twenty-one years old, and she had experienced too much for daydreams to suffice. She needed to see his face, to hear his voice, to feel him, warm and solid beside her. She needed to touch him, to be touched by him. The vague frustration she had felt from time to time before marriage was now a clearly defined desire, and on nights like this one, it taunted her. She made a point of keeping her hands above her covers, and close to her face so she wouldn't be tempted to let them wander. What would the Angel say if he knew what she was thinking of doing? If it weren't for her appointment with him in the morning, she would have given up on sleep, and read a book.

* * *

"Restless night, my dear?" The Angel asked.

"Is it that obvious?" Christine peered into the mirror, trying to pinch some color into her pallid cheeks.

"Only to me," he replied with fondness in his voice. "I see you more clearly than others, but rest assured you are lovely as always."

"Thank you," she replied. She was never quite certain how to respond when someone complimented her looks. She knew she was pretty, but she did not view it as an accomplishment deserving of praise.

There was an awkward silence for a moment, and Christine was on the verge of asking to begin their lesson, when the Angel spoke again. "You don't speak of him as often as you did, but you still miss him very much, don't you?"

She thought she detected a hint of jealousy in his voice, but perhaps she was reading something into his words that was not there - applying a human emotion to try to make sense of a being she could not possibly understand. "Yes," she answered, "I will miss him until he's home safely with me."

"I know I told you to use music as a balm for your pain, and in the beginning, I know that was all it was to you. Tell me truthfully, is music - am I - still nothing more than something to occupy your mind?"

Now she was certain she detected jealousy in voice, as well as sorrow. She did not know why he had decided to pursue this line of questioning, but she could not fault him for it. No one would want to be reduced to being nothing more than a distraction. Christine wished to be honest with him, so she pondered his question before answering. As much as her lessons had become her saving grace, as dear as the Angel was to her, was he ultimately only filling the space Raoul had left in her life? Though her dreams of being Raoul's wife and the mother of his children had not changed, singing felt like more than just the distraction it had been. Instead of a short lived career being something to keep her busy until she could be a proper wife, it was now something she would be loathe to leave. Well, at least the music aspect of it... She could have done without the speculation surrounding her, and the developing rivalry with Carlotta. She carefully explained her thoughts to the Angel.

"Unfortunately," the Angel said, "There's not much to be done about speculation and rivalry. There will always be people who gossip, and there will always be people like Carlotta in the world."

"I know," she agreed, with a small smile. "My father always said that I should only worry about what I do, how I behave, because there is nothing to be done about other people."

"He was right. If music is your motivation, if you love music - if you love me - the rest won't matter." He spoke with such passion, and his voice held such beauty, that she would have agreed with anything he said at that point.

"Oh, I do. I don't know what I would have done without you." And it was true. As she loved her dead father, as she loved music for his sake, she loved the Angel.

* * *

Someone, in the guise of the Opera Ghost, was sending La Carlotta threatening notes. Naturally, she had jumped to the conclusion that it must be Christine, or some friend of hers. Opening night was almost upon them, and Christine was completely miserable. She had no idea who would threaten Carlotta, but she had to admit she understood why Carlotta suspected her.

"Who would do such a thing?" She asked the Angel, fighting tears. "Not only to her, but to me? I always try to be kind to everyone. Why would anyone want to make Carlotta think I was threatening her? Whoever is doing this must have known that she would suspect me."

"Are you sure she isn't sending these notes herself?" The Angel inquired.

"Why would she ever do that?" The idea that anyone would manufacture such a scenario just to get at someone else seemed beyond all understanding to Christine.

"To make herself look like a victim... To have something with which to accuse you, when all she had before was your superiority."

"No... I cannot believe it of her. She is not, perhaps, the nicest person, but she isn't that evil," Christine reasoned.

"You mean she isn't that clever," the Angel countered, amusement hovering at the edge of his voice.

Sorrow, shock, and something approaching anger met in a sob that escaped Christine's throat. "It isn't funny," she choked before dissolving into tears.

"Hush, my child," the Angel whispered into her ear, all his mirth having disappeared. "I did not mean to upset you. It's only that this all seems rather ridiculous to me, but clearly it is not to you."

"No, it is not," she replied, struggling to understand how this situation could possibly amuse him. "What do I do?" She wrapped her arms around herself.

"You hold your head high, and go on, because you know you did nothing wrong," his voice was like a loving hand stroking her hair, but it did not stop her tears. "You must stop crying, dearest," he continued gently. "You won't be able to sing if you keep this up."

Christine nodded and sniffed. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry... It's just... It's just that I wish you were here with me."

"I am right here," the Angel reassured her.

"I know..." There were times, like this one, where a voice was not enough. She wanted a hand to hold, a friend to sit beside her. When she was a child, she'd felt so safe with her father, and she was sure she could recreate that feeling with the Angel, if only he had a physical form. "I only wish I could touch you."

The Angel said nothing, and Christine began to sob afresh. She must have said the wrong thing, and now she had lost him. "Angel?" She asked after several more minutes of his silence and her sobbing.

"I'm here," he answered quietly.

"I thought you'd gone... I shouldn't have said that."

"No, Christine... It is only that I don't know what to say."

"I knew that was too far," she said, internally cursing herself. "I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize. You said nothing wrong; I know it was meant innocently."

She swayed on her feet and caught herself against the edge of her vanity. She only just realized how her words might gave been interpreted.

"You've allowed yourself to become far to upset over nothing," the Angel scolded mildly. "Sit down and calm yourself."

She sat down and struggled to obey the latter command.

"Listen to me. Anyone with an ounce of sense knows that you could not be behind this. If Carlotta actually believes it was you, then she is a fool, as is anyone who listens to her. Foolish people are not worth your trouble. As for the other, there is nothing wrong with not wanting to be lonely. Knowing you, I knew precisely what you meant." His voice was firm, but not angry. "Now you must stop crying; It pains me to see you so upset."

* * *

As she lay in bed that night, Christine comforted herself with the Angel's words. He was right, of course; no one who knew her at all would ever think her capable of sending threatening notes. The situation would soon resolve itself somehow, and she would be protected by the truth of her own innocence.

She drifted on the edge of sleep rather quickly, exhausted from too much crying during the day. At the moment she should have given into it completely, she heard the slightest sound, almost like someone taking a breath. It was most likely nothing, but she opened her eyes, sat up, and peered around her bedroom just to be certain.

"Angel?" she asked, feeling slightly ridiculous, even though that was the only potential culprit that made sense to her.

Seeing nothing, and receiving no response, she lay down. Likely, she had only begun to dream, and the sound was something akin to the sensation of falling that occasionally woke her when she first began to sleep. Still, she drew her covers closer and shivered.

It was some time before she finally fell asleep, and that only seemed to last a moment. Suddenly, something was pressed over her mouth and nose, and something else lay across her chest and pinned her arms down, effectively restraining her. She knew this was no dream, and her eyes flew open. The being that held her down was dressed entirely in black, including a mask that covered its face - a face close enough to her own that she could see its eyes when they caught the faint light emanating from a street lamp. When it shifted slightly, those eyes glowed in the darkness like a cat's. For the first instant she had been too shocked to move, but seeing those strange eyes awoke her survival instinct, and she began to fight, thrashing wildly. The hand over her mouth prevented her from screaming, and no amount of movement was able to break her free of the grip that held her. Whatever it was, it was far too strong for her. Her breath came in panicked gasps, a strange sweet smell and taste, with underlying hints of something rotting filled up her mouth and nose. She thought she might be sick, but she couldn't stop herself from hyperventilating, from breathing in more and more of whatever substance was on the rag. She was going to die. Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. Raoul would come home, only to find that she was dead. What would that do to him? And poor Mamma would be devastated. And the Angel? If she could cry out for him, perhaps he would hear her, but she could not. Internally, she begged God to send someone to save her. She couldn't die like this - murdered in her own bed by an unknown assailant.

Then, the strangest thing happened, the man - for she had concluded that her attacker was a man - shushed her with the sort of tenderness one would expect to hear from a mother quieting a crying baby. For what seemed like hours, but she knew was only a span of several minutes, he half-lay on top of her, forcing her to inhale some sickening substance, while gently, wordlessly trying to soothe her. After she could no longer move, but before she lost consciousness, his weight disappeared from her chest, and icy cold fingers, fingers that trembled ever so slightly, smoothed her hair back from her forehead.

 **Note:** I'm posting this chapter from my phone (We just moved and we have no internet), so any random letters can probably be blamed on that. Thanks for the reviews, I appreciate it as always.


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